Read Online The Madonna of Notre Dame by Alexis Ragougneau, Katherine Gregor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alexis Ragougneau, Katherine Gregor
Tags: Literary, Literature & Fiction, Crime, Mystery, Crime Fiction, Literary Fiction, Noir, Thrillers & Suspense, Thriller & Suspense, Police Procedurals
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drive us into a lamp post!”
They drove around a line of cars entering the westbound highway and headed toward Saint-Cloud. A few minutes later, they stopped, straddling the sidewalk, outside a 1970s building. White as a sheet and his face glowing with sweat, Gombrowicz got the blond angel out of the car, holding his arm, while Landard was already walking into the building, closely followed by Claire Kauffmann.
In the elevator, they refrained from talking, the four of them crammed like sardines in a can. Claire Kauffmann could smell the odor of cold tobacco absorbed by Captain’s Landard’s jacket, and the scent of cheap deodorant wafting from Lieutenant Gombrowicz’s moist armpits. She could also hear the young suspect’s breathing quickening as they rose and drew closer to his mother’s door.
A little woman in a robe, with thinning hair and a stooped, sickly form, opened the door. When she saw her handcuffed son, she began to moan, her eyes wide and panic-stricken. With a hand deformed by arthritis, she covered her mouth, which was wide with surprise. She would not close it again—or barely—for the rest of the search.
What struck Claire Kauffmann when she first walked into the hallway was the stuffy smell: How long had it been since the windows had been opened? The blinds were closed. By the window, she noticed that strips of wide, brown Scotch tape had been stuck over the Venetian blinds, preventing light and air from coming in between the slats. A glance around the place informed her that all the other openings in the apartment had suffered the same treatment. The blond angel and his mother lived in a veritable tomb consisting of a kitchen, a bathroom, two bedrooms, and a small living room.
An old-looking television set was blasting a commercial for an insurance company. Landard had estimated the time of his arrival well. “Is Thibault’s father not here, madame?”
“He passed away, inspector. He died twenty-one years ago, in a car accident on the road to Satory. He was a soldier. I was six months pregnant when it happened. Thibault never knew his father.” She turned to her son and put her fist in front of her mouth again. “Thibault ... The police ... What have you done now?”
Claire Kauffmann pulled the file out of her bag. “Madame, your son has been arrested as part of a murder investigation. He will remain in custody until noon tomorrow, unless his custody is extended by twenty-four hours. These police officers are here to search your son’s room in order to help their investigation. Do we have your permission?”
“Good Lord! Thibault! So it was you on TV. It was you at Notre Dame. What have you done now?”
“Will you permit us to see your son’s room, madame?”
With a hesitant hand gesture, she showed them a door at the end of the corridor. Landard headed there first, walking along walls with faded wallpaper patterned with flowers that seemed to have wilted years earlier. Touching the door handle, he turned to the young suspect, whose arm Gombrowicz was still holding.
“All right, Thibault, my boy? Do you mind if we take a look? Now do pay attention to where we search and what we take away because at the end you’ll have to sign a little piece of paper for us. All right?”
He leaned on the handle and opened the door. Inside, there was the same stifling air as in the rest of the apartment. Landard groped for the switch on the wall. Once the light was on, he couldn’t stop himself from swearing.
The young man then entered, followed by Gombrowicz and Claire Kauffmann. The magistrate and the two policemen stood for a moment, taken aback, their eyes sliding along the walls, shelves, cupboard, and display cabinets. Gombrowicz, who’d turned even paler because of the lack of oxygen in the place, turned to his superior. “Honestly, Landard, have you ever seen anything like it?”
The blond angel’s room was a veritable museum devoted to the Blessed Virgin Mary. Lined up against
They drove around a line of cars entering the westbound highway and headed toward Saint-Cloud. A few minutes later, they stopped, straddling the sidewalk, outside a 1970s building. White as a sheet and his face glowing with sweat, Gombrowicz got the blond angel out of the car, holding his arm, while Landard was already walking into the building, closely followed by Claire Kauffmann.
In the elevator, they refrained from talking, the four of them crammed like sardines in a can. Claire Kauffmann could smell the odor of cold tobacco absorbed by Captain’s Landard’s jacket, and the scent of cheap deodorant wafting from Lieutenant Gombrowicz’s moist armpits. She could also hear the young suspect’s breathing quickening as they rose and drew closer to his mother’s door.
A little woman in a robe, with thinning hair and a stooped, sickly form, opened the door. When she saw her handcuffed son, she began to moan, her eyes wide and panic-stricken. With a hand deformed by arthritis, she covered her mouth, which was wide with surprise. She would not close it again—or barely—for the rest of the search.
What struck Claire Kauffmann when she first walked into the hallway was the stuffy smell: How long had it been since the windows had been opened? The blinds were closed. By the window, she noticed that strips of wide, brown Scotch tape had been stuck over the Venetian blinds, preventing light and air from coming in between the slats. A glance around the place informed her that all the other openings in the apartment had suffered the same treatment. The blond angel and his mother lived in a veritable tomb consisting of a kitchen, a bathroom, two bedrooms, and a small living room.
An old-looking television set was blasting a commercial for an insurance company. Landard had estimated the time of his arrival well. “Is Thibault’s father not here, madame?”
“He passed away, inspector. He died twenty-one years ago, in a car accident on the road to Satory. He was a soldier. I was six months pregnant when it happened. Thibault never knew his father.” She turned to her son and put her fist in front of her mouth again. “Thibault ... The police ... What have you done now?”
Claire Kauffmann pulled the file out of her bag. “Madame, your son has been arrested as part of a murder investigation. He will remain in custody until noon tomorrow, unless his custody is extended by twenty-four hours. These police officers are here to search your son’s room in order to help their investigation. Do we have your permission?”
“Good Lord! Thibault! So it was you on TV. It was you at Notre Dame. What have you done now?”
“Will you permit us to see your son’s room, madame?”
With a hesitant hand gesture, she showed them a door at the end of the corridor. Landard headed there first, walking along walls with faded wallpaper patterned with flowers that seemed to have wilted years earlier. Touching the door handle, he turned to the young suspect, whose arm Gombrowicz was still holding.
“All right, Thibault, my boy? Do you mind if we take a look? Now do pay attention to where we search and what we take away because at the end you’ll have to sign a little piece of paper for us. All right?”
He leaned on the handle and opened the door. Inside, there was the same stifling air as in the rest of the apartment. Landard groped for the switch on the wall. Once the light was on, he couldn’t stop himself from swearing.
The young man then entered, followed by Gombrowicz and Claire Kauffmann. The magistrate and the two policemen stood for a moment, taken aback, their eyes sliding along the walls, shelves, cupboard, and display cabinets. Gombrowicz, who’d turned even paler because of the lack of oxygen in the place, turned to his superior. “Honestly, Landard, have you ever seen anything like it?”
The blond angel’s room was a veritable museum devoted to the Blessed Virgin Mary. Lined up against
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